


Monsterless

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Eliot Waugh Character Study, Eliot Waugh is not The Monster, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Protective Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater is a sub, loss of a parent, quentin coldwater needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18443000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: He shoots the monster, but the monster doesn’t die. Apparently the meat suit it’s wearing doesn’t have to beliving,exactly. They don’t realize that until after the debacle with the keys and the library showing up, however.But that’s fine. Nigel, the bastard son of a British Lord, doesn’t know or care about monsters.A re-imagining of the death of Quentin's father if Eliot was not possessed by The Monster.





	Monsterless

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hiding from Season 4 canon at the moment. Anyone want to hide with me?
> 
> Special thanks to [ for being my beta and Magicians Fandom Buddy. <3](http://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/)

Eliot shoots the monster, because on the long, long list of things he would do for Q without thought, biting the morality bullet and being the one with blood on his hands isn’t even near the bottom. 

He shoots the monster, but the monster doesn’t die. Apparently the meat suit it’s wearing doesn’t have to be _living,_ exactly. They don’t realize that until after the debacle with the keys and the library showing up, however.

But that’s fine. Nigel, the bastard son of a British Lord doesn’t know or care about monsters.

__

Coming out of the glamour is less like waking up from a dream and more like the first breath of air after drowning. It’s violent and debilitating, it _hurts_ , but there’s a sliding sense of rightness like the body wants it. Reality slips back into place like a bone setting, and then he’s Eliot again, and he’s able to take in who’s around him, and who’s not.

No Bambi. No Quentin. No Hedge Bitch or Alice _fucking_ Quinn. 

They have just enough time to start wondering what the fuck happened, what the fuck they’re going to do now, before Q wanders out of an alcove in the apartment, like he’d been there’s the whole fucking time. And the thing is–

The thing is, Eliot’s stupid fucking heart surges to life in his chest, racing double time the moment he sees Quentin, like all’s right with the world now that a shy, sweet supernerd wandered out of a back room. Than he really sees him, and sees the blood. He’s _covered_ in blood. And behind him comes The Monster, wearing the meatsuit Eliot pierced with a god-killing bullet. Eliot’s blood runs cold, sure they’re all about to die, here in this gaudy penthouse in lower Manhattan. And by god, he didn’t give up being king of a magical land to die south of 42 Street.

Lucky for them, the Monster seems intent on playing with his food first, long enough for Margo ( _beautiful Margo_ , competent Margo, High King Boss Bitch Margo) to arrive. Long enough for Margo and Quentin to persuade the monster out of killing them, a process Eliot is sure would have started with him and lasted a very long while. He loves them both so much he could kiss them, or break down crying, or drink his entire body’s weight in very high proof tequila. 

Margo and Hoberman take the Monster to Bacchus, and Eliot’s saved the pain of making the choice (Margo or Q, Margo or Q, how many times is he going to have to choose) by the fact that the Monster is looking at him like he’d like to pluck Eliot’s eyeballs from his skull and eat them for afternoon tea.

So. Library heist it is. 

“I’m kind of persona non grata at all the Push games in the city.”

“I just don’t want to.”

Quentin’s curling in on himself next to Eliot, that hunch of his shoulders he gets when he wants the floor to eat him alive. Eliot slides his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, doesn’t think about how Quentin melts into his side easy as breathing, shifting his weight into Eliot with a kind of trust that is _gut wrenching_. “Looks like it’s you and me, Q.”

The little smile Quentin gives him is warm, says _thank you_ and _you don’t have to_ and _I want you with me_ all at once, and goddamnit. It should be unsettling to know someone so well, to know the little expressions of their faces, to have memories of time spent with them which stretch out longer than your memories of your actual life. 

_Run away from this_ , screams his head and _I can’t leave him alone like this_ , screams his heart. He squeezes Quentin’s shoulder once and moves back, watches the others bully New-Penny into going too. 

__

Hedge Bitch tosses Quentin the cursed teddy bear, and okay, maybe Eliot needs to stop calling her that in his brain, except she goes and does something like _that_. And now Q, prone to clumsiness at the best of times, has a metaphorical target painted on his back.

They keep him safe, best as they can. Luckily there’s enough ambient magic in the room for the only banishing spell Eliot knows, or things with that boa constrictor would have gotten way worse. Luckily he can get a shield up in time to block the falling ceiling fan from crushing Q. 

He can’t protect Quentin from a phone call. He’s never been able to protect anyone from anything that really mattered. 

Eliot lets Julia sit with Quentin while he listens to the message later that night. She’s known him longer, in terms of actual time lived in these bodies, not some half-remembered other life. She’ll know better what to do. So he sits hunched over with his elbows on his knees in the dark living room, one decorative bookshelf away, and wonders what it would be like to have a father you’d mourn. Because no one ever accused Eliot Waugh of being a _good person_. 

Julia walks away some time later, giving him a helpless look and a little shrug before ascending the stairs to one of the penthouse’s many bedrooms. Eliot, after a moment's consideration, decides to wait for Quentin. And waits. And waits. 

When Quentin finally comes around the bookshelf, Eliot’s struck by how different he looks to the giddy nervous freshman forever imprinted on Eliot’s brain. It’s not just the jeans and button down, either, Q looks older. His posture, the way he holds himself. There’s a purposefulness to him that Eliot doesn’t remember being there before the quest. 

He watches, wordless, as Q pours two drinks from the liquor cart and walks over the couch where Eliot’s sitting. He holds one out, still silent, and once Eliot accepts it he takes a seat next to him. His face is dry but his eyes are red, like he’s been rubbing him. Eliot wants to touch him, stroke back his hair, tuck Quentin against his chest and let him have a space to break down. 

He takes a drink instead. 

“I need to go to New Jersey tomorrow,” Quentin says, very softly, but his voice might as well be a shout in the silent room. 

There were so many things Eliot could say to that, and of all of them the one he probably _shouldn’t_ say is, “I can go with you, if you want.”

But the look on Q’s face, the relief mixing with heartbreak mixing gratitude, the way the tears come sudden and freely... could he have said anything else? Could he do anything else but set their drinks aside and hold Quentin close? 

“Please,” Q whispers, and clings to Eliot in the darkness of the penthouse. 

__

Eliot thinks Quentin might balk, last minute, tell Eliot to stay and help Julia look for god-killing materials (because that worked so well last time). But he doesn’t. He hands Eliot the keys to his rental car and climbs into the passenger side, and that’s that. Road trip time.

He’s quiet, at first, and that always unnerves Eliot a little bit. Normally, the trick with Quentin was getting him to _shut up_ , or finding away to be so fondly amused by his babble that it stopped being annoying. A quiet Q is a Q lost in his own brain, and that never leads to anything good. 

“Did I ever tell you about my parents?” Quentin asks, once they’re out of the city and on the highway. He’s looking out the window, sitting on his hands with his forehead leaned against the glass, and Eliot can’t read his posture like this. “In Fillory, when– the other us. I can’t remember specifically.”

“I know you were close with your dad and not with your mom,” Eliot says after a moment’s thought. “You talked about him a lot. Her not so much. I know you lived with him.”

“She didn’t want me,” Quentin says, his voice clipped, and Eliot’s heart _hurts_ for a beat or two. _Oh, Q._ Oh, why did that have to make so many things make sense. Stupid fucking parents and the stupid fucking ways they break you for life. “I mean, I didn’t see her much after they divorced. Her girlfriend didn’t like kids.”

A moment of indecision, and then Eliot’s tugging on the sleeve of Quentin’s suit jacket until his left hand is free, taking it in his. It’s awkward for a beat, and then it isn’t. It’s familiar and easy like they’ve done this hundreds of times. Holding hands over the gearshift, they both adjust their posture, Eliot sliding his left hand up to the top of the steering wheel, Q unfolding a little. Opening up a little. Breathing a little easier.

Eliot doesn’t let go again until he needs both hands to navigate.

“So, how should I play this?” Eliot asks, watching Q tense up again as they curve their way through his old neighborhood.

“What?” he mutters, shooting Eliot a confused look.

“With your mom,” Eliot clarifies. “Should I be charming and engaging? Deflective? A total Ice Bitch, because you know I can do that.”

Q laughs, just a little thing, and Eliot’s stupid heart skips. “I don’t know, just be polite I guess?”

“Hmm,” Eliot hums skeptically as he pulls their rental car up next to the sensible mid size sedan, eyeing the woman standing next to it. “I will make an attempt.”

It proves harder than he expected. 

“Mom, this is Eliot,” Quentin intones, and Eliot can feel himself being sized up, her eyes flicking over his carefully cultivated ‘Oscar-Wilde-Gay’ appearance. He stands taller and thinks _I was a King, and so was your son. It’s not your place to judge us._

“Are you in Quentin’s cohort from school?” she asks, motioning them towards the house, and Eliot falls into step behind Q, close, feeling... protective.

“A year above, actually,” he replies, because Q said to be polite and he said he’d try.

“He was my mentor, first semester,” Quentin says, glancing over his shoulder with the hint of a twinkle in his eye. Eliot smiles despite himself, not thinking about how the only things he’d ever lead Q into were misery and pain and death. 

Most of the house is in boxes already, only some stuff in the kitchen and the garage left. Eliot, who considers himself to be something of an expert in wrapping stem-wear, latches onto this task while Quentin’s mother leads him through the door into the garage. Eliot can hear them talking, just barely, through the open door. 

_“He’s dead, Mom, we can stop criticizing him.”_

_“You’re the only millennial I know not buried in his phone 24/7.”_

_“Are we really going to do this again?”_

_“Be careful. Don’t break anything.”_

Eliot’s seized with the sudden urge to smash the glass in his hand just out of spite. But he restrains himself. That wouldn’t be _polite._

__

It takes Eliot about an hour and a half to finish boxing up most of the shit in the kitchen. It was kind of fascinating, in a vaguely macabre way, how much you could tell about a person by what dishes were used and worn and which ones weren’t. Ted Coldwater hadn’t entertained much.

There was still shit in the fridge, but Eliot decides that is Not His Problem, grabs two water bottles and goes off to find Q. 

He’s made more progress than Quentin has. Eliot finds him sitting on the floor next a half-empty shelf, surrounded by half-empty boxes. He scootches one out of the way, then presses a cold water bottle to the sensitive skin on the back of Q’s neck, just to watch him yelp and squirm. He does, glaring at Eliot as he settles down next to Quentin on the floor, but accepts the water when Eliot passes it to him. 

“He practically lived in here,” Quentin sighes, unprompted, looking forlornly around the room. Eliot, who’s seen enough planes-planes-more-planes picking his way across the room, chooses to look at Quentin instead. His hair is shorter now than it has ever been, but it’s still long enough to be hanging in his eyes. Long enough to hide behind. He’d taken off his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, lovely forearms braced against the book in his lap.

“What’s that?” Eliot asked, curious, leaning towards him a little.

“Oh, uh. Photo album.”

“Really?” Eliot asked, delighted, leaning in even closer to get a better look. A gap-tooth boy of about seven smiled up at him off the page, holding tight to the edge of a hay-ride wagon. “Is that you?!”

“Uh huh,” Quentin agreed, resigned, and tipped the book towards Eliot so he could see a little better and Eliot.

Eliot experiences a moment of dizzying deja vu. For half a second, the boy on the page overlays with another mental image of a gap-toothed seven year old, and his heart _hurts._ But, no, the shape of their eyes were slightly different, even if they had the same nose and the same sandy floppy hair. Teddy had favored Quentin’s appearance more than his mother’s, but Arielle had lived in his eyes and in his smile. 

Eliot swallows around the lump in his throat, and looks up to meet Q’s eyes. They’re sad, and understanding, and the corner of his mouth quirk’s a little in a half apology. 

“Is it stupid that I never realized how much he looked like you, at this age?” Eliot breathes out, and it isn’t until the words are out of his mouth that he realizes that they haven’t spoken about Teddy since the day they got back.

“Why would you? You didn’t know me at this age,” Quentin says with a shrug, breaking eye contact to look back at the book, flipping to a new page. The next few pictures are of young Quentin and his father, laughing, riding a bike, wearing halloween costumes which were maybe supposed to be Jedi. Then he’s slamming the book shut, so abruptly that Eliot jumps, and looking up at him with big wet eyes spilling over. “I can’t do this, El, I can’t, how am I supposed to do this?”

It’s instinct to gather Q up into a hug, he’s done it before he’s even thought about it, but Quentin’s clinging to him tightly so it can’t be all bad. That protectiveness he feels, has always felt when he looks at Q, flares to life. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

“He’s gone, El. What am I supposed to do?”

Eliot pulls back, and there’s a million ways he wants to touch Q, to offer comfort and support. Tuck his hair behind his ear. Wipe the tear tracks from his cheeks. Kiss his temple, cheekbone, the pretty soft sad bow of his mouth. 

Instead he squeezes Quentin’s hand, a safe choice. ( _Coward._ ) “You’re supposed to finish putting the rest of these planes in boxes, and then we’re going to drink that bottle of Scotch over by the weird plaid chairs. M’kay?”

Quentin snorts, weakly, wettly, but it’s something. “Yeah, okay.”  
__

It takes them well into the night to get all the planes boxed up, mostly because Quentin’s being so careful. Eliot doesn’t quite get it, but he trusts Quentin and respects him enough to take care in this, where he might not be inclined to do so normally. 

But they do get it done, and only one plane gets broken. Even that is more Eliot’s fault than Quentin’s, he’d over estimated how high up it was and tried to reach it without the ladder. 

The little broken plane lay in front of them now, where they are sitting on the floor in front of the weird plaid chairs. Eliot’s not entirely sure why they aren’t sitting in the chairs, other than this felt safer, somehow. Closer. More intimate. Drinking whiskey out of coffee mugs, the only things not packed yet. One from a local dinner, one from the English department of Quentin’s undergrad. The pangs of bitterness he’d have felt at that even a day ago were gone. 

He’s spent the whole day watching Quentin do this one final quiet act of love. Not, like he claimed, out of obligation to his mother but out of respect for his father. Love for him. No, Eliot has no bitterness in him for that. He feels _proud_ to have been even a small part of that. 

“You know, it’s really dumb, but I’m glad you’re here,” Quentin murmurs, staring into the middle distance, before taking a sip of whiskey from the mug in his hand. “Even when you’ve broken up with me, you make me feel better than anyone else.”

“I did not,” Eliot protests, and he’s not even slurring a little bit. Impressive. “I did not break up with you.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” Quentin snorts, rolling his eyes. He fixes Eliot with a pointed look, but he doesn’t seem angry. Just... sad. Eliot’s heart turns over weakly. “You broke up with me like 4 times.”

“Did not!”

Quentin sets his mug aside, hold up his fingers to tick off. “You broke up with me when you decided I should start seeing Arielle. Then you broke up with me _again_ when you decided I should _marry_ Arielle–”

“You didn’t know the fidelity clause was only for royalty either–”

“– and then, okay fine, the third time I guess doesn’t count as breaking up with me because you _died_ , but it still hurt. And then again in the throne room.” 

“I’m not sure that counts as breaking up with you. I think you have to have been at least sleeping together to break up with someone,” Eliot deflects, looking away, mostly because there’s a metaphorical knife driving into his ribcage and it’s starting to twist too much to breathe. 

“Well, you got me there,” Q says, quiet sarcasm, and the thing is. The thing is that Eliot knows what Quentin’s face is going to be doing before he looks up and sees it. He knows the exact way his shoulders will be hunched and his head ducked. 

He knows that in another life, he would have been able to reach over and smooth the floppy hair back off Quentin’s forehead. Kiss him softly at the worry point in his brow, which would make him smile just enough for his dimples to show. Would have slid his hand back to Q’s neck and squeezed gently and pulled Quentin into his arms. 

He knows all these things because Quentin’s right. Eliot had run away from something real. 

He swallows around the painful lump in his throat. “If you ask me, sounds like you dodged a bullet in this timeline. This is why I don’t do ‘boyfriend’. I’m terrible at it.”

“You really are,” Q agrees, picking his mug up and taking another sip. Which, wow, ouch. Didn’t have to be so quick to agree there, Quentin. There’s a beat, long enough that Eliot begins to wonder if he should take himself somewhere else, give Q some space. Then– “You’re a really good partner, though.”

Eliot must make some kind of sound, startled or disbelieving, because Q smiles at him sadly. “I mean it. The real shit, this shit,” he waves his hand at the room around them, and then the space between them. “The being there for someone, supporting them, you’re really good at that shit. The way you just... held our whole lives together after Ari died. Not a lot of people could do that. You’re a really good father too. And an amazing grandfather.”

“Oh,” Eliot breathes, because suddenly there’s bands of grief and loved crushing his chest and constricting his windpipe and it’s the only sound he can get out.

“I guess that’s why I was hoping we could skip the boyfriend bit, at the wedding in the palace. You know... just skip all that since we’ve done it before, and get to the parts that matter.” He gives and awkward-half shrug, staring into his mug of whiskey, then brings it to his mouth. Drains it. “Doesn’t matter now.”

 _It matters,_ Eliot thinks, and can’t say. _It matters. It matters. I’m a coward, but it matters._ But how could he say that to Q of all people. How can he say _you’re the only person who’s ever thought that because you’re the only person got close enough to rely on me, and I ran away from it._

He swallows, looks down into the coffee cup. Swirls around the whiskey left in it. Drains it. Picks up the bottle to pour them both some more. Q smiles at him, tired and sad, then turns to back to stare at the little broken plane. 

“One broken plane’s not too bad. I’m sure my mom was expecting more.”

“Well, fuck her,” Eliot says matter of factly, all the politeness stripped away by the whiskey and grief seeping into his blood. “What, you broke something as a kid and now you’re branded for life?”

“Pretty much,” Quentin mutters, tipping his head back against the chair.

“Well, that’s stupid. Kids break shit, that's what they do. Remember that summer Teddy kept breaking the mosaic tiles? That was quite literally the fate of the world and we didn’t drag him over the coals for it. He was restless and bored, so he broke some tiles. We didn’t hold it against him for the rest of his life.”

“They were easy to mend,” Quentin says quietly, and Eliot has the memory right there in his head. Quentin careful and diligently mending broken tiles while Eliot tried not to lose his patience with their petulant 6 year old for the fourth time in three days. 

“You fixed a lot of stuff he broke, Q. Call that karma, paid in full.” Eliot waves his hand as he speaks, and when it falls it lands on Q’s thigh instead of his own. Before he can rectify that mistake, Quentin’s hand is on his, familiar and warm. 

“You know I told my dad about him? About... Our family. I think it might have been the first time in a really long time that he looked at me and actually _saw_ me, when I talked about holding our son for the first time.” There’s a beat, and Eliot can do nothing but squeeze Quentin’s hand in his own. “I miss him.”

Eliot didn’t have to ask if he meant their Teddy or his father. The answer was just ‘ _yes_ ’. The quest had cost them all so much, Eliot his crown and Julia her magic, but Q... sweet Q, brave Q, it had cost him his family. Over and over again. It should have turned him cold and hard, but it didn’t. If anything, Quentin was kinder. Braver. Loved less selfishly than he had before.

Quentin had always been the brave one, the one who went out on a limb. He’d kissed Eliot on the mosaic, sweetly and with no expectation. He was the one who returned to Eliot’s side, again and again during that life they lived and lost. It had been Quentin, brave sweet Quentin, who’d asked for another shot. And Eliot had run away.

There was no doubt that Q deserved better than that. That he probably deserved better than _Eliot_ , but Eliot’s the one who’s here. He’s the one Q chose and keeps choosing, against all odds. He’s the only one here, watching Quentin curl into himself, whiskey breaking the damns he’d put up around his own grief.

“Baby,” Eliot whispers, his own heart breaking, shuddering and dying in his chest as Q’s face crumples. Oh, oh Eliot’s an ass, he doesn’t deserve Quentin, but Quentin deserves someone who can love him the way he needs and... Eliot can do that. He can. “Baby, c’mere.”

Quentin crawling into his lap, into his arms is the same sliding sense of deja vu he’d felt looking at the picture earlier. This body, these bones have never held Q like this, tucked him close with his head against Eliot’s shoulder, the warm weight of him in Eliot’s lap, but he knows it. The feeling of his broad chest in Eliot’s arms is familiar, achingly so, the soft texture of his hair, the warm smooth skin on his neck. Eliot knows it all. Has loved it all.

Loves it all.

 _Run away_ , says the scared voice in his head. _Fuck you, he needs me_ , says the determined voice in his heart. And for maybe the first time in his life, the second voice is louder. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, resting his head against Q’s as he shakes apart. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and means it.

Means it.

__

Quentin cries himself out, then gets adorably self conscious about how red and snotty he is. Eliot, having made a decision, wants to jump all-in feet first in true Eliot fashion and kiss away his embarrassment, but. 

But.

Quentin would let him, he would except comfort in the form of sex, Eliot’s sure of that. And it would break his heart the whole time, because he would be sure this would be the only time. It would be the kind of sex Quentin uses to punish himself, and Eliot’s been a part of that once before. He’s not willing to take advantage of it now that he knows Q better.

So instead he brushes Quentin’s damp hair back from his face, kisses his forehead, squeezes his neck gently and sends him off to clean up. Q seems dazed still, but he goes, washing his face in the empty downstairs bathroom while Eliot wrangles the bed of the sleeper sofa. They’re too drunk and too tired and too wrung out to drive back into the city tonight. It takes some digging, but he does manage to find a blanket he can shake out onto the bare mattress. That’s good enough, to be honest. They’ve both slept in weirder and less comfortable places while drunk. 

“Remember that time you passed out in a literal closet in the cottage at Brakebills?” Eliot teases, as Q stumbles over to him, collapsing onto the bed and struggling out of his shoes.

“You mean the time my childhood best friend used a gaslighting curse on me? Kind of sticks in the memory.”

“You were fine, you deepthroated a scorpion and woke up,” Eliot tosses flippantly, but he can’t even remotely contain his smile when Q glares at him.

Q is not, despite what one would think based on his general compact huggability, a very good little spoon. He’s a restless sleeper, prone to tossing and turning, and more often than not he ends up kind of starfished on his back. Eliot knows this. Eliot also does not care, opening his arms up in offer as Quentin crawls up the bed, taking the blankets with him. They curl up under the blanket, a safe warm little space, and it’s yet another feeling of deja vu. Eliot slept like this for a whole life time. It feels like coming home.

“I miss them too,” Eliot admits, into the quiet space in their blanket cave. “I try not to think about it because there’s always things that need to be done. And if I start thinking about them, I’ll never stop. But I loved them too.”

“You’re gonna make me cry again,” Quentin complains, but he just looks tired, wrung out and empty. Eliot touches his cheek, gently, and when Q leans into it, brushes his thumb against his cheekbone. Quentin’s stubble is rough against his palm. He’s so fucking precious, every single broken, irritating part of him.

“Get some sleep, Q,” he murmurs, pressing a soft fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth. Q makes a quiet noise, snuggling in close. Helpless, Eliot holds him, and tries to find his own sleep.

__

Eliot wakes up the next morning to watery sunshine streaming weakly into an unfamiliar living room, and Quentin’s warm body half on top of him. Q’s awake, which is unusual. Eliot is more prone to being the early riser between them. But Q’s awake, his chin propped on his fist on Eliot’s chest, watching him with thoughtful eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers, fragil in the early morning light, and he’s smiling just a little bit, little curls of dimples in the corner of his mouth. Eliot’s helpless heart turns over at the sight.

“Hi,” Eliot returns, eloquently, and Quentin’s smile broadens for a fraction of a second.

“Thank you for coming out here with me,” Quentin says, with the air of someone who has definitely been awake for longer than 30 seconds. Eliot blinks and tries to focus. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“I didn’t do it because I had too,” Eliot mutters, bringing his hand up to the space between Quentin’s shoulder blades, where his tattoo lives under his shirt. “I wanted to be here for you.”

Quentin makes a thoughtful sound, moving his hand so he can press his cheek to Eliot’s chest instead. Eliot wonders, vaguely, if this is the kind of conversation he should sit up for. Decides against it, decides instead to enjoy the way Q’s body feels, legs tangled together with his, heartbeat against his ribcage. The smell of him, skin and hair and day-old after shave, is as familiar as breathing. 

Quentin, who has always been the brave one when it comes to them, looks up at Eliot and asks, quiet, “You know I’m in love with you, right?”

And Eliot... Eliot’s head screams _run away, run away_ and his hearts says _no, no, stay here forever_. He swallows painfully and asks, because he has to, “Still? I was pretty callus to you.”

“Still,” Quentin agrees, simple, tipping his chin back on Eliot’s chest and smiling that small smile.

 _For you, I can be brave,_ Eliot thinks, brushes his thumb against the corner of Q’s smile. _I can be brave enough to be honest._ “I love you, too. I’m scared of it, but not of you– I’m scared of it because I want it so much.”

“I know,” Quentin says, serious, and pushes up onto his elbow to hover over Eliot. His bangs flop down into his face, ridiculous and dear. “I know you, El. I love you anyway. Can you let me?”

Eliot rubs his hand across Q’s back, swallows his fear and doubt, and says “Yes.”

Quentin smiles, and kisses him. It’s a soft thing, a brief press of lips and then another, and another. It sends a wave of tingles through all of Eliot’s half-awake nerves, and then he’s cupping Quentin’s neck and drawing him closer and _oh, oh yes_ , Quentin yields so beautiful to him. Oh, Eliot remembers this, remembers the way Quentin likes to be kissed and kissed and _kissed_. He goes pliant and loose, sweetly responsive, melting against Eliot. Yielding and giving and _oh god_ , that’s like a fucking drug, and it’s been so _fucking_ long since this body felt another body like this. Eliot’s getting hard already, just from this. 

It’s Q who breaks away, eventually, lips kiss-bitten and breathing hard, but looking determined. “I can’t... I can’t do this here, El, I’m sorry.” 

Right. Dead father’s living room. Bit of a mood-killer.

“Don’t be sorry, baby,” Eliot whispers, and he can see it, the flicker of doubt in Quentin’s eyes wondering _If I don’t do this now, do I lose my shot?_ And, that’s fair, Eliot’s earned that. The trust between them is fragile, and he has some proving to do, but Eliot’s trying to be better. Is going to be better. “We’ll have time later.”

“Assuming the Monster doesn’t kill us. Or my mother doesn’t kill us.” 

Well, there is that. More packing it is.

__

It’s mid afternoon by the time they get back to the safehouse, after what was probably the single most sexually charged car-ride of Eliot’s _goddamn life_. It had been tampered, at first, by the tension between Quentin and his mom. But a little minor mending, and she hadn’t even had the single broken plane as ammunition in her weird hostility. So they’d shaken and parted ways, metaphorically. _Politely._

But now they were back, and Julia wanted to talk to Q, and also she had a worshipper now which. Weird flex, but okay. Then New Penny arrived, and dear god, if people didn’t leave them alone _Eliot was going to murder someone._ He held his limited patience together long enough to let Quentin and Julia get through the important stuff, and then just. Dragged him away by the arm. 

Wasn’t exactly the first time he’d done that.

He half expects Quentin to get shy on him, once there’s a door between them and anyone else, and big plush bed feet from them. He remembers freshman Q who could barely tell anyone he wasn’t a virgin without blushing so hard he nearly caught fire. And it had been _fun_ , teasing that boy, making him stutter and blush. It had been darkly sexy, even, kissing him drunk in bed and watching him _lose himself_ in how much he wanted things he couldn’t put into words had been so good. 

But this... this is better. Quentin the man, leaning back against the closed door, looking at Eliot with that small smile and eyes that say _come get me_ and _I’m yours if you’re brave enough to take me._ His eyes are bright when Eliot crowds him into the door, cups his cheek, tips his head up.

“Are you sure?” Eliot asks, like Quentin hasn’t been the one driving them down this path the whole time. But–

But. But Eliot can’t hurt him, not again, never again. 

Quentin’s hands slide around Eliot’s waist, and then he’s stretching up, up onto his toes so his mouth is scant centimeters from Eliot’s. Breathes, “Yes,” and waits. Eliot can read it all, there on his face. _Take me, take me, I’m yours._

Eliot does. Presses Q back against the door and kisses him, feels him yield and give and _open up_ to Eliot. He feels so small, pinned between Eliot and the door, and heaven help him but Eliot _likes it_. Loves it, how compact Quentin is, how he makes Eliot feel... big and strong and all these things that shouldn’t matter but _do_. And he’s so responsive, shivers and moans a little, helpless, when Eliot’s tongue fucks into his mouth slow and dirty.

And that’s such a lovely sound, Eliot wants more of it. He wants all of Q’s sounds, wants to do everything in the world he can to draw them out. His fingers sliding into Quentin’s hair draw out another shivery little sound, and Eliot spares a thought to miss Q’s longer hair. But this is still long enough to tangle and tug, to pull Quentin’s head back until their mouths part with a slick sound that makes Q _writhe_ against him. Which is just... very distracting, to be honest. Eliot sets to work kissing and sucking at Quentin’s sweet soft vulnerable throat as a means of regaining his focus. 

It doesn’t hurt that it turns Quentin to putty in his hands. “ _Eliot_ ,” Quentin whines, hands petting at Eliot’s sides like he just needs to touch and can’t figure out where. “Eliot, _please_ , I’ve waited so long.”

And he has, really, hasn’t he. Eliot draws back, cupping his cheek, kissing him once more, tender and sweet. Then he pulls away, slides his hands down Q’s arms to tangle their fingers together. He smiles because he can’t help himself, and winks as he starts walking backwards, tugging Quentin with him until he hits the edge of the bed. Sitting on it, he looks up, watches Q watching him, and murmurs, “Baby, you’re so beautiful,” just because it’s true. 

_That_ is enough to turn Quentin shy, get him to blush a little, but he looks pleased. Then he’s climbing into Eliot’s lap, straddling his thighs. He’s hard against Eliot’s stomach, grinding down just a little against where Eliot’s cock is throbbing in his own trousers. It’s _so good_ , it’s ridiculous, Eliot could probably get off like this. But he doesn’t want that, he wants. So much. Everything. Every single way they can have each other. 

“I want–” he starts, and then bites back on it, because the echo of the other him in his head from the life they never lead usually let Q pick what they did. That version of him had run away from everything he ever wanted. 

“Yes,” Q pants, arms around Eliot’s shoulders, panting into his mouth, and his lovely brown eyes are _blown black_ , fuck. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Eliot laughs, and presses another tender kiss to Q’s sweet soft mouth. 

“I trust you,” Quentin says, and Eliot’s heart. Eliot’s heart _hurts_ , like it’s being cauterized. 

They shed their clothes with varying levels of grace, but nobody gets kneed in the balls so Eliot counts that a success. Then Quentin is gloriously naked and gloriously in his lap, all skin and light hair and lean muscle and perfect little ass. Having Q naked in his lap might be the best thing Eliot’s ever experienced.

He’s torn, for half a heartbeat, between the magical and the mechanical. He wants, he _wants_ to fit his fingers into Q one at a time, feel him open and flutter and shiver and _yield_. But practically speaking, he hasn’t carried portable lube packets on his person for at least two years, and also if he doesn’t get inside Q soon he might just die.

“Hey,” he mutters, breaking back from Quentin’s hungry kisses, earning himself an honest to god whine. _So needy_ , he thinks fondly, and squeezes the back of Q’s neck. Watches him settle. “Next time I want to open you up slow. But I’m gonna do a spell this time, okay?”

Q, looking dazed, only nods. Then shivers and gasps and digs his fingers into Eliot’s shoulders as he adjusts to the feeling of the magic settling into his body. “That feels _weird_ ,” he pants, and Eliot nods, rubs the small of his back sympathy. 

“I know, baby.” Eliot reaches up to tug his hair to distract him, which proves very effective. It’s _dangerous_ , how much Q loves that, how much Eliot loves doing it to him. 

Quentin looks so fucking beautiful sliding down onto Eliot’s cock. Vaguely, Eliot’s known this for years, but it’s an amazing thing to be reminded of up close. He looks so... so startled by his own pleasure, greedy little rolls of his hips like he can’t even get all the way down before he needs to move on it. His brows draw together in a pinch of surprise, mouth red and wet and open. He’s practically shaking.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Eliot coaxes, and Quentin moans and shudders, his cock leaking between them, so turned on it looks painful. “Do you need to come?”

“Yes,” Q admits, tucking his face into Eliot’s neck, hiding. Eliot pulls him back up by the hair, smiling at the way Q’s breath hitches, and takes him in hand. It only takes a few strokes, and then Quentin’s coming, clenching, hotslicktight around Eliot inside him. 

Everything goes liquid and slow after that. They rock together, and it’s pleasure like a rolling fire in Eliot’s belly. He feels like _he’s_ been split open, skinned and raw whenever Q pulls back to look at him. Quentin, touching his face and smiling, leaning in for another kiss. And another. Rolling his hips in a way that shorts out Eliot’s brain. 

Quentin gets hard again, with time slowed like molasses around them, and Eliot... Eliot’s whole being is consumed by this. His nipples ache, his balls feel tight and heavy, he can barely breathe for how much he wants to come but he doesn't want it to end. He doesn’t want to stop being inside Quentin ever again. Eventually, it’s too much, eventually he has to grip Q tight and flip him over on the bed and _really fuck_ until the pleasure crests inside of him. Burns him alive, like purifying fire. 

He tries not to go limp and useless after, tries to get a tingly-numb hand down to Quentin’s cock, hard against his hip. But Q bats him away after a handful of seconds, with a laugh and a mutter of, “Just kiss me, dumbass.”

Eliot can do that. He can kiss Quentin and hold him close as he comes, and keep holding him after. No more running. 

They doze, a little, maybe. Or maybe they just lay together, spent and sticky, probably pretty gross in a way that’s so carnally satisfying Eliot’s a little embarrassed about it. Quentin’s hair is so soft, Eliot can’t stop touching it. Q doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, quiet into the inches between their lips on the pillow. “About before. I’m sorry I hurt you because I was scared.”

“It’s alright.”

“I mean... I literally sent you away by boat. Into a place _literally_ called ‘The Abyss.’” 

“I know, Eliot, I was there,” Quentin points out, amused, “You told me to go be life partners with someone else.”

“Yeah,” Eliot sighes, wincing. “I’m a dick.”

“Little bit. Still love you.”

Eliot’s heart thumps. Keeps beating. “I love you too.”

Quentin smiles, that big eyed, crinkly smile he only ever gives to Eliot, how was he _so blind for so long_. Eventually they’re going to have to get up and rejoin the world, fight the monsters and take back magic. Eventually Eliot’s going to have to acknowledge there’s more to the world than this bed. But for now, he can let a smiling Quentin push him onto his back and start kissing down his chest. For now, he can tangle his fingers into this beautiful man’s hair and hold on for dear life. 

The world can wait a few more hours.

**Author's Note:**

> My way of dealing with Canon I don't like is to ignore it, so follow me for exactly zero Magicians meta at [portraitofemmy](http://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Monsterless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563461) by [particularlyexistence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/particularlyexistence/pseuds/particularlyexistence)




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